We Can Do It
by PhantomBialystock
Summary: Crossover with The Producers. A boy, Serge, appears in Max and Leo's office one morning, claiming to be from Paris. What the two producers learn about him throws them into a situation they would have liked to avoid. Max/Leo and Raoul/Christine.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey everyone! I couldn't decide what fandom to write my next fanfiction for: The Producers, or The Phantom of the Opera. I decided to do a crossover with elements of both. :) It's VERY different from my other crossover. Please enjoy and tell me what you think.**

**And I must give credit to Vampira of Stalking for the premisses of what happened between Leo and Ulla. Don't worry, I changed it a little, but it was inspired by that. ^-^**

* * *

I entered our office, early as usual. Before going too far in, I sheepishly looked around. When I saw no one, I quietly shut the door and ventured further in. With my suitcase pressed closely up to my chest, I inspected my surroundings one last time. It had been a few months, but I still couldn't forget when Max had jumped out from behind the couch, scaring me half to death.

Max wasn't anywhere in sight, though, and he probably wouldn't get here for another half an hour or so. Instead of getting straight to work as usual, I decided to plant myself on the couch and take a quick nap. I had received so little sleep the night before. Ever since Ulla left me a month ago, leaving nothing but a quick note, I had been drained of all my energy. The thought that she had been having so many affairs behind my back and that she had run off with someone else was unbearable to think about. Just having it enter my mind now makes me want to cry.

I curled up on the sofa and closed my eyes. If it wasn't for the fact that the door burst open a few moments later, I probably would have drifted off to sleep.

"Hi, Leo," Max said. I reopened my eyes to see him hanging up his coat and hat on the coat rack.

"I'm sorry. I should be working, shouldn't I?" I asked, jumping off of the couch and heading over to the desk.

"It's okay. You're tired. I can tell." He gives me an understanding look, which I return with a weary smile. "I don't mind if you rest a little while longer."

"No, it's fine," I assured him, searching the top drawer of the desk for the script to our new musical: _52nd Street_. It was our first musical since Prisoners of Love and completely breaking free from our prison lives. Even if the memories still haunted us on a daily basis.

"It's not like there's much to do."

I shook my head. "There's still so much to do with the script before we start rehearsals. It still needs so much editing."

"Leo, if there's anything you want to . . ."

"It's fine!" I snapped, and then noted Max's shocked expression. What had gotten into me? I would have never done that before. "I'm sorry."

Max put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was surprisingly calming. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I shouldn't be invading. Now, back to the script." He picked up the script and flipped open to the first page, but before he could comment on anything a knock at the door sounded.

"Come in," Max said. I assumed it was Roger and Carmen, or maybe even Franz. The person who we saw barely resembled either of them, though. A young boy, maybe in his teens, entered. He was dressed all in black, and seemed very confused.

"Bonjour. Parlez-vous francais?" he asked in something that sounded like French. We just stared at him in complete confusion. "English?"

"Yes," we reply.

"Where am I?" The boy came further into the office. I could feel my legs starting to shake, and my hands fished their way into my pocket in order to retrieve my blue blanket. I twiddled it in my fingers as the man came closer.

"You're in New York City." Confusion lined Max's brow. The boy seemed seriously lost.

"New York City?"

"Why? Are you from some place else?" My business partner stood up and guided the boy over to the sofa. His eyes darted about, inspecting all his surroundings.

"I'm from Paris."

"Paris?"

"Yes. My name is Serge."

"Alright, Serge. How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

As the conversation continued, Max seemed more and more befuddled. I got up from my chair and made my way over to him. "Would you like something to eat, Serge?" I ask the boy.

"No," he replies simply. "I'm not hungry. I want to go home. I want my grandparents."

"Are your grandparents in America?"

He shook his head in the negative. Max and I shot each other concerned looks. I couldn't be sure if the story this boy was creating was a hallucination, or if it was the truth and to be taken seriously. "They're in Paris," he told us. "Or at least I think they are. I live with them."

"Then how did you get here?" I asked.

"On a ship."

"And how did you get on the ship?"

"I . . . I don't know." Serge casts his eyes to the ground. "I just remember blackness. And then I was on a ship."

Max and I nod, trying to grasp all that he was explaining to us. "What are your grandparents names?"

"Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny."

From the sounds of it, they were both prominent individuals in France. The fact that their son was missing would probably attract a lot of attention. And lucky us. We just happened to have him on our hands right now.

"Well, for now you can stay with us. I'm Max Bialystock, and this is my associate Leo Bloom. We're Broadway producers, and this is our office."

"Broadway producers?" Serge asked, his eyes lighting up. He reminded me of myself when I was first introduced to Max. I showed him my ticket stub and everything, hoping he would offer me some kind of advice. "That must be exciting!"

"Yeah," I said, grinning at the boy's enthusiasm. "It has it's ups and downs, but overall I enjoy it." _Better than the accounting firm._

"Well, if you need to get back to work, don't worry about me," Serge assured us. "I can take care of myself. And if you need me to do anything, I'll do it for you."

"Okay," Max replied, smiling back at him. The two of us began to head back to our desk to continue working on the script when we heard Serge's voice sound again.

"I remember one more thing, too. A man in a white mask."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Not sure how people are liking this story, since I haven't gotten any reviews. I wrote the next chapter anyway, since I'm eager to write this fanfic. Tell me what you think, please, and how I can improve if you find any flaws. :D**

**Disclaimer: The Producers and The Phantom of the Opera aren't mine.**

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_A whole new world  
A new fantastic point of view  
No one to tell us no  
Or where to go  
Or say we're only dreaming_

_-A Whole New World _from Aladdin

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Max and I whipped our heads back around to see Serge's bewildered face. The two of us exchanged our dumbstruck expressions. "A white mask?" Max asked. It did seem like an odd color. Didn't criminals usually wear black to hide their features?

"Yes, white. And it was only half a mask."

"That's sure as hell weird," Max sneered.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Serge said, a hint of distress creeping into his voice. He let his head fall into his hands.

"No, no!" Max hustled over to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. I lagged along behind him. "It's just . . . strange. Your situation. I don't how you could have traveled all the way across the Atlantic ocean without knowing anything about it."

Serge shrugged. "It's a mystery to me, too. So much is missing from my memory of it. I think I was drugged or something, because I barely remember the ship. I just recall waking up once . . . or twice . . . maybe three times. And a piece of disgusting old bread. But it's all a blur, like a dream or something."

I nodded, trying to comprehend his situation. "Are you sure it wasn't a dream?"

"That's the problem." Serge stood up and walked over to our desk. He let his body sag against it and released long, exasperated sigh. "I can't tell. But that man in the white mask . . . my grandmother spoke of him before."

My eyes popped wide open. "What about him?"

"She always told me this story," the boy began, casting his gaze to the floor. "It was about this man who kidnapped a young woman. He was deformed and wore a mask to hide it. A white one nonetheless. He was in love with the woman and tried to make her love him as well. But she was engaged to another man."

Max dismissed the tale as a trifle. "Probably just a coincidence. Or a hallucination while you were drugged."

I wasn't so quick to place this piece of information aside, though. "What if it wasn't just a coincidence?" I asked.

Serge let his shoulders sag in defeat. "It's the most clear out of all the memories I have, though. And then I remember him saying something along the lines of how something will make my mom regret her decision."

"What decision?"

"I don't know."

Max returned to his desk, murmuring a few muffled words. "I don't think we can really do much for you, then."

"We can bring you to the police," I offered with a smile, but Serge was quick to turn it around.

"No! I'd rather stay with you two then go see them."

"But maybe they can help you . . ."

"NO!"

Max and I glanced over at each other, then turned back to Serge. We didn't ask him to explain his reasoning, but he continued on anyway. "I'm sorry. I'd just rather not."

"Well, that's fine," Max said. I could see the words "this kid is crazy" written all over his face before he looked up at the clock on the wall. "It's only eleven."

"Eleven," I groan. Yet another reminder of Ulla.

"Oh. Sorry," Max apologized, and then quickly changed the subject so that he wouldn't get me even more upset. "I'm starving. How about an early lunch?"

Just the mention of food made my stomach growl. I hadn't felt hungry for breakfast, but now the pangs was gnawing at my stomach like an angry bear. "Sounds great." I turned my attention back to Serge. "Would you like to come along?"

"What do you usually eat?"

"Chinese food, hamburgers, hot dogs. The likes."

Serge stared at us as if we had just said something in Japanese. "What are those?" he asked.

"Don't tell me you've never had any of them," Max said, aghast.

"I've heard of them," Serge explained. "I just don't really know what they are, and I bet they're disgusting. There has to be French food in a city this big, right?"

"Right, but we're not having it."

Max could have treated our guest with a little more compassion, but then again, that was just Max's way of greeting people. After awhile you just got used to it. It certainly kept our days at the office interesting.

"So what are we having?" I asked, curious myself.

"How about we go to the pub down the street?" Max replied. "That way our little friend here can try a hamburger or something."

I could see a look of disgust cross Serge's face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'd like a bacon-and-cheddar hamburger," Max said to the waiter, consulting the menu that was sitting in front of him.

"Grilled turkey sandwich for me," I added.

"A . . . hamburger," Serge said, rolling his eyes. He gave the menu back to the waiter with an air of distaste.

"Okay, then. That will be right out," the waiter assured us. He was tall, skinny, and had a smile shining on his face. It wouldn't have surprised me if he cracked a joke or two, but he simply walked away with our menus tucked under his arm.

"Are you sure I can't have wine?" Serge asked for the tenth time since we had entered the upscale pub.

"Do you want us to get arrested?" Max snapped at him. "You can't have wine! You're only fifteen!"

"I could in France."

"That's France! This is America, and you can't drink until you're twenty-one. So unless you find a way to magically make yourself that age, shut the hell up and drink your friggin' coke!"

Serge clamped his mouth shut after those few remarks from Max. My business partner looked over at me, sitting on the other side of the booth, and rolled his eyes. I could tell that he just wanted this kid to drop dead. None of us allowed our lips to make another sound until our meals came for fear of Max's rage.

"A bacon-and-cheddar for you, a grilled-chicken for you, and a hamburger for you," the waiter announced as he lay our food in front of us. Max and I eyed the food hungrily, but Serge still wasn't convinced. "You sure this is edible?" he asked the waiter. Max kicked his let under the table.

"Yes, it's edible," the waiter replied, letting out a confused chuckle. "Enjoy." He left our booth, giving Serge a stupefied stare.

"Now eat it, kid," Max told him bitterly before taking a bite of his. He chewed it slowly and then allowed a smile to burst onto his face. "It's good."

"Mine is too," I said with a mouth full of my sandwich. "Just try it, Serge."

Serge shrugged and took a bite. He didn't say anything after swallowing it, but it looked like he was reluctantly enjoying its taste. Max and I didn't get to enjoy his expression for too long, though. A stranger soon approached our booth.

The man had blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was neither smiling nor frowning; not enjoying life, but not hating it either. He was decked in a gray three-piece suit and wore a pair of spectacles.

"Hello," Max said. "And who would you be?"

"Roswell. You probably don't know me."

"You're right. I don't. Now would you mind explaining why you're talking to us?"

"I saw your play last night."

"Springtime for Hitler?" Max asked. "Can't believe it's still running."

"It was fabulous!" Roswell's face lit up. "All the tap-dancing Nazis, all the singing, and especially that Roger DeBris."

Max let a groan escape from him, but quickly covered it up. "Yep, he's great. Just great."

"I hope he'll be in your future productions. And who's this with you?" He pointed his finger in Serge's face, eyeing him carefully.

"My nephew," Max and I said simultaneously. We then noticed our little blunder.

"He's my nephew," Max corrected.

"I see," Roswell said, nodding his head slowly like it was on a crane. I could tell he was unconvinced by our statement, but he didn't elaborate. "Well, then. It was nice meeting you two."

"You as well," Max replied as our newest fan walked away. Once the sound of his footsteps faded into the air, Max whispered, "That was a little peculiar."

"Yeah," I agreed, looking behind me. The man wasn't there, though. "It was."


	3. Chapter 3

_Yesterday  
_

_all my troubles seemed so far away  
Now it looks as though  
they`re here to stay  
Oh I believe in yesterday_

Suddenly  
I`m not half the man I used to be  
there`s a shadow hanging over me  


_Oh yesterday came suddenly_

_-Yesterday _by The Beatles

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**Chapter 3**

After lunch, we spent an uneventful afternoon back at the office. Roger and Carmen never came in, and neither did Franz. Rehearsals hadn't begun yet, so Max and I were left to look at the script, taking periodic breaks. Serge occupied the sofa for most of the day. He read the newspaper that had been delivered, desperately searching for some type of article on his disappearance, even after Max explained to him that we only got the local news. Nothing about France would appear in it.

Since there was so little to be done, Max and I decided to head home early. Before we departed, though, we decided to plan Serge's living arrangements for the time being.

"So, who do you want to live with for now?" he asked the boy. "You've got an option between me and Leo."

"Leo," Serge replied without a moment's hesitation. "He isn't as annoying as you are."

Max shot him a nasty glare. "Then go with Leo and let him put up with all your whining."

"Fine then."

Max hustled out the door. I let out a chuckle, and then followed behind with Serge at my side.

The rest of the day was just as uneventful. Serge and I watched the news, ate a dinner of pasta (which he actually approved of), and even played a few card games. When I was finally tired enough, I lay down on the sofa in my living room. Serge was still up, but he had claimed my bed for the night. It didn't matter, though. I was exhausted. I let a few tears fall from my eyes for my broken heart over Ulla, and then drifted off into a deep sleep. I probably would have strained to stay alert if I had known what would occur, though.

---------------------------------

I opened my eyes the next morning, but it didn't feel like I had actually opened them. It was still as dark as pitch. I tried to place my hand in front of my face, but found that my arm wouldn't move. After attempting to free my other one, and then trying to wriggle my legs, I assumed that I was bound together. Maybe rope? That's what it felt like, at least.

My heart started thudding in my chest like a hammer whacking a nail into place. My palms became wet and sticky. "Max?" I called out. "Or . . . or maybe Serge? If this is a joke, it's not funny."

A door suddenly creaked open, letting a sudden burst of light flood the room. It hurt my eyes, but the man who walked in quickly closed it. He flicked the lights in the room on, though. They were dull, but I still had to blink a few times before I could focus in on him. It was the man we met in the restaurant that day! Only this time he was holding a cane in his hands.

"We meet again," he said, approaching my side. "Do you know why you're here, Bloom?"

"No." Tears started to sparkle in my eyes.

"Good. Now, Bloom, you're going to answer some questions, and you're going to answer them truthfully."

"Why am I here?"

"You only speak when I address you, Bloom. Understood?"

"Yes." My voice was nothing but a whimper by this point.

"And if I think you're lying to me, you'll feel this against your back." He demonstrated by whacking the cane against me with all the strength he could muster. I repressed a cry of pain. "Get it?"

"Got it," I reply.

"Good." The man eyed me for a moment. A few whimpers escape my dry lips. "Let's begin."


End file.
